


More Ink Than Arm

by APgeeksout



Category: Banshee (TV)
Genre: Casual Sex, Community: hc_bingo, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 16:25:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10994607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: The bartender doesn't offer her name, and he doesn't ask, but when she pins him with an appraising look across the long expanse of the empty bar and moves into the back, holding the swinging door open behind her, he follows.





	More Ink Than Arm

The bartender doesn't offer her name, and he doesn't ask, but when she pins him with an appraising look across the long expanse of the empty bar and moves into the back, holding the swinging door open behind her, he follows. 

She smells like the lemons he's watched her cut into wedges out on the worktop, her hands steady and sure with the knife. Her grip is the same on him – deftly wielding a tool for her own purpose and satisfaction – when she tips his head down to press his mouth against the soft hollow of her throat, guides his hand into position over the hot, smooth skin of her thigh. Her fingernails dig into the skin beneath his collar, and he gasps into her neck. His hands aren't nearly as steady as hers, a tremor building in his fingers as they stroke up her sides, greedy for as much contact as he can beg, borrow, steal. 

When she's pressed between him and the wall, panting encouragement in his ear, he notices her soap, the sweet notes of her shampoo and face powder and the thousand other things he'd almost forgotten about being this close to a woman. The salt of her skin overpowers all of it as she hitches her leg against his hip and opens herself to him.

The urgency to put soft skin under his hands and to feel the drag of her flesh on his and to bury himself in her heat makes him sloppy. In just a few strokes he's finished, coming with a ragged noise against her shoulder. She pats awkwardly at his hair, and he chokes on another raw noise. 

It can't have been very good for her. (And he used to be very good at this. Fifteen years have not taken away the memory of Ana coming apart at his touch. Even on the long nights when he wants nothing more than oblivion, he can't forget the way his name sounded, carried into the darkness on her moan.) Still, when she pulls away from him and straightens her clothes, the smirk she gives him is more amused than sour, and back in the main room, she sets him up with another round. 

Maybe she's used to disappointing backroom fucks. Maybe, within walking distance of the prison, she knows exactly how much to expect. Maybe she got something out of the moment that he just doesn't understand. He hasn't spent time with real people in so long he's got no fucking clue what might move somebody anymore. 

Whatever it is, she doesn't seem to feel the need to talk about it, or anything else, just lets her fingers brush over his when she hands over the bottle, and the wash of relief and gratitude he feels is somehow more embarrassing than his quick-draw performance in the supply room. He leaves enough cash for the beers and a good tip – he hopes it's a good tip, anyway; he's out of practice at this, too – and scans the parking lot next door for something fast and low and easy to wire.


End file.
